The Garden Where Nothing Grows

Beneath the sun’s indifferent glow,
Lies a garden where nothing grows.
The soil is cracked, the earth is bare,
A barren plot beyond repair.

I’ve tilled the ground with trembling hands,
Planted seeds from distant lands.
Watered hopes with tears that fall,
Yet nothing sprouts, no life at all.

The spade of time has dug too deep,
Left wounds no care can ever keep.
Each scar a stone, each ache a thorn,
A landscape battered, bruised, and worn.

I’ve whispered prayers to skies of gray,
For roots to take, for buds to stay.
But every dream I’ve tried to sow
Withers where the past still grows.

The weeds of doubt, the frost of pain,
Choke the soil, a cruel refrain.
No bloom can break this hardened crust,
No green can rise from ashen dust.

Yet still I kneel, my hands in dirt,
Though every effort seems to hurt.
For even in this empty place,
I find a strange and fragile grace.

A garden where nothing grows
Still holds the memory of a rose.
And though the ground may never yield,
It’s mine to tend, my heart’s own field.